


new new wave

by cherrytreebridge



Series: marching band au [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Angst with a Happy Ending, Colorguard AU, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, another based on a true story bc thats where all my fic ideas come from, let iwa pine!, love triangle esque drama (but everything turns out fine), perpetuation of toxic masculinity doesnt exist and oikawa can wear a colorguard uniform with a skirt, slow burn but more like microwave burn, songfic adjacent, theyre so in love its disgusting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26335000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrytreebridge/pseuds/cherrytreebridge
Summary: new wave:a style of rock music popular in the 1970s and 1980s, deriving from punk but generally more pop in sound and less aggressive in performance.new new wave:the playlist that makes iwaizumi hajime think of his awful, terrible crush
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, one-sided oimatsu that is important to the plot
Series: marching band au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831198
Comments: 25
Kudos: 45





	1. do you want to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iwaoi marching band au is here! thank u twitter for giving me brainworms!
> 
> another out of step spinoff, but standalone! pls read out of step though it's my child

_When I woke up tonight I said I’m,_

_I’m gonna make somebody love me,_

_I’m gonna make somebody love me,_

_And now I know, now I know, now I know, it’s gonna be you!_

_(You’re lucky, lucky, you’re so lucky!)_

Oikawa Tooru likes cheesy EDM from the early 2010’s and songs that were popular in the 80s. He blasts his J-Pop playlist when Iwaizumi allows him the aux cord in the car and knows every word to the soundtrack of Mamma Mia. He still listens to Everytime We Touch by Cascada, unironically. 

Why the fuck would Franz Ferdinand make Iwaizumi think of him? 

He sighs, refusing for the upteenth time to answer that question for himself and instead pulls his headphones out of his ears, closing Spotify and the playlist titled _New New Wave_ along with it.

He first heard it about a year ago, flipping through the channels and just happening to catch a game between UC Irvine and UC San Diego. Besides the fact that basketball was fun to watch, those were both schools he was looking at applying to, so he kept watching up until halftime, when UC Irvine’s pep band took over for the lull in the game. The sports channel only showed half a minute of their playing before cutting away to discuss the game so far, but that was enough. 

Iwaizumi went on a youtube dive later, looking up the “Anteater Band” and finding recordings of them at every sports event imaginable, including one of them playing the same songs they had at the basketball game he saw - _Do You Want To_ by Franz Ferdinand, the one he’d heard on TV, followed by _When the Sun Goes Down_ by the Arctic Monkeys, _Float On_ by Modest Mouse, and _All These Things That I’ve Done_ by The Killers. 

He’d gotten attached, made a playlist, and was still listening to it religiously ten months later.

A group is already forming outside of Seijoh’s performing arts building, waiting for the director to come open the door and night practice to begin. 

Iwaizumi has to stop himself from looking around for Oikawa. He knows he won’t be there - volleyball started a week ago, which means he now splits his time between that and marching band, and he’s worked out the conflict to be an hour late to night rehearsals.

It’s the same reason he didn’t run for drum major a year ago, Iwaizumi thinks bitterly, as he spots Matsuakawa and Hanamaki out of the corner of his eye, inseparable as always. Hanamaki has his white conducting gloves in hand, laughing at whatever Matsukawa is grinning about.

Practice is smooth and easy. Yes, there’s the tug on his lungs during breathing exercises, the pull of his muscles as they stretch on the field, and the familiar burn in his legs as he runs to put away his case and move to the first set for the night, but all of that is so familiar that it fades into the sounds of his marching band warming up. 

The first hour drags on, it seems like. Usually this is the part that goes by quickly, the warm up and the music rehearsal over songs he memorized at the end of summer. His third year of band and he’s comfortable with the demands of marching season, the memorization coming easier every year and his feet falling into the patterns on the field. But right now he’s not quite as interested in the conversations on the sidelines during water breaks - instead he finds himself watching the gate to the field, where he has a view of the main gym.

And he waits.

He checks his phone at the next water break, just a quick one, and it’s almost seven. Something in his chest tightens up, and he ignores it. 

At ten after seven, the gym lights flicker and he sees a group of high school boys start to filter out, one of them jogging towards the field as best he can with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a flagbag over the other. Iwaizumi is towards the middle of the field with the rest of the trombones, standing still for the moment as the director runs through something with the members on the other end of the field. He watches Matsukawa, up on his drum major stand, whistle at Oikawa as he runs past, and Oikawa turns around to blow him a kiss. Iwaizumi’s eyes follow him to the far end of the sideline, where the guard is, watches as he drops his things and collects two flags, one placed carefully on the sidelines and the other unfurled with the long movement of his arm, his eyes focused on the spot on the field he’s moving towards. 

Oikawa looks up, catches his eyes, and gives him a cute little wave. Iwaizumi waves back.

They’re called into set not a second later, and Iwauzimi shifts his attention to the feeling of his trombone in his grip, grounding himself. 

Practice flies after that, even as the sets get harder and the reps get longer. They’re going on hour three and he’s exhausted, physically and mentally, mind swimming with pages of music that are starting to blur. But every time he looks up across the field, he sees Oikawa. Sometimes he’s completely in the zone, concentration on his face, his flag draped across the ground; sometimes he’s looking up and meeting Iwaizumi’s gaze, and he’ll throw up a peace sign, or wink, or stick out his tongue childishly. 

Before the last rep, they cross paths on the way to their first sets, and Oikawa sneaks up and flicks him on the forehead. Iwaizumi turns around to retaliate but his provoker is already several leaps away, laughing at Iwaizumi’s annoyance. He finds out during the last rep that it’s hard to have a good embouchure with a smile. 

Practice ends, last announcements are given, and Iwaizumi jogs off the field with his trombone hanging in one hand. He goes through the motions of emptying the spit valves, taking it apart, and placing it gingerly back into his case, packing up his things. He blinks and finds his feet have taken him not to the gate to exit the field, but to the other sideline, where the colorguard has their things. Not only that, but he’s standing next to Oikawa.

“Iwa-chan,” he whines, “Carry my flags for me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I have my school backpack _and_ my volleyball bag, and you only have your bone and you’re so strong, too-”

“Alright fine, give it to me,” Iwaizumi grumbles, but takes them dutifully, slinging them over the arm not occupied by holding a trombone. “Christ, what’s in here? Why’s it so heavy?”

“Three flags and a rifle!” Oikawa says cheerfully, taking his spot by Iwaizumi’s side as they walk back to the performing arts building. 

“You made rifle line?” Iwaizumi asks, surprised.

Oikawa beams. “I thought I told you! Decisions were yesterday. Aren’t you proud of me, Iwa-chan?”

“No,” he says, smirking, and Oikawa gives him an overdramatic pout. “Now it just means I have to carry a heavier flagbag for you.”

Oikawa laughs, and it makes his chest hurt. 

They stop in the band room for Iwaizumi to drop off the flags and the trombone. Oikawa takes his flags from Iwaizumi but he follows him to the guard room anyway, watching him drop his bag into the pile and then crouch to unzip it, collecting one flag for him to practice with at home. They walk to the parking lot together in silence, their shoulders barely close enough to brush. 

Oikawa looks up at him. “I want tea.”

“Not not down,” Iwaizumi agrees easily. “Meet you there?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pausing for only a moment, his eyes on Iwaizumi, before he turns and walks to his parking spot in the school’s lot. 

They follow each other down to the strip mall near campus, where a small boba shop is settled into the corner. It’s not too busy on a Thursday night. There’s a few groups sitting at the tables and only one person in line ahead of them. They both stare at the menu for a solid two minutes despite always ordering the same thing every time - Iwaizumi gets a green tea latte with aiyu jelly, and Oikawa gets the brown sugar matcha latte with boba, half ice and eighty percent sweet. He’s very specific about it. 

Oikawa grabs both of their orders and Iwaizumi picks a table near the back. Oikawa sits across from him and props his chin on his hand, sipping his tea. 

_Maybe I should say something,_ Iwaizumi thinks. He opens his mouth. 

But then Oikawa speaks. “Hey, Iwa-chan.” 

“Yes?”

“Listen”

“I’m listening?”

“I think I might be into Mattsun.”

He says it so bluntly, and Iwaizumi had never heard him be so open about his feelings before that he’s caught off guard. “What? Oikawa-”

“I know, he’s dating Makki. And I’m happy for them, I really am! They’re perfect together. But I had to get it off my chest, right?” 

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi stutters, staring down into his tea. “I get that. Don’t worry, I won’t tell him or anything.” 

He looks at him, blinks slowly, takes another sip. “What were you going to say?” 

_I can’t say it now._

“It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing if you were thinking about it.” His face is soft, thoughtful, and he can read Iwaizumi like a book. There’s no point in being defensive.

Iwaizumi sighs, taking a long sip. “I guess we’re just thinking the same tonight. I had a question about… relationship stuff.”

“Oh?” he asks, leaning forward on his elbows, curiosity on his face.

Iwaizumi is suddenly very conscious of how close they are, sitting at this table, and the way that all of Oikawa’s attention is on him. “It’s kind of related, I guess. Uh, my question is…” 

_He’s looking at me. He’s looking at me._

“If you were into someone, but you knew it would never happen, do you think you should still tell them?”

Oikawa answers almost too quickly. “Well, if it were me, I’d still want to know.”

He feels the wind get knocked out of him. Oikawa’s gaze had suddenly shifted so he’s looking just to the side of Iwaizumi’s face instead of right at it, his eyes turned downward, a frown around his straw. 

His phone buzzes. It’s nearly ten.

“My mom is probably looking for me,” Iwaizumi says. “I should get home.”

Oikawa nods in agreement, pushing back his chair to stand. They both walk back out the door and to the parking lot, neither of them looking at the other.

Iwaizumi tells him goodnight quietly, slips into his car, and sighs loudly. He runs his hands down his face.

The aux cord is sitting on his dash, so he plugs in his phone. _New New Wave_ is the first playlist in his recent Spotify history, but he picks something else and lets it play on his drive home. The guitar intro of Franz Ferdinand’s “Take Me Out” wafts through his speakers.

_So if you're lonely_

_You know I'm here waiting for you_

_I'm just a cross hair_

_I'm just a shot away from you_

_And if you leave here_

_You leave me broken, shattered, I lie_

_I'm just a cross hair_

_I'm just a shot, then we can die_

_Oo-ooo-ooo_

_I know I won't be leaving here with you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [new new wave show](https://youtu.be/DfqC1tktwrI) was actually done by my band (not uc irvine, sorry. i gave it to them for the sake of the fic) 
> 
> thanks for reading!


	2. when the sun goes down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just near 4k of me being sappy about marching band!! you've been warned!! i miss it. 
> 
> oikawa's colorguard uniform is [the teal one](https://awctcolorguard.com/Catalogs/Guard/Uniforms/G553-Casualty) but imagine a galaxy print on it too. and seijoh's uniform is [this one](http://fruhauf.com/wp-content/uploads/catablog/originals/0189.jpg). fun fact it originally was supposed to be completely different, but i saw this one and went on a SPIRAL and rewrote everything so that's what it looked like. shrugs

_I’ve got a feeling in my stomach_

_I start to wonder what is story might be_

_What his story might be_

_(Cause they say it changes when the sun goes down around here)_

Football games are all bright lights and loud fans and adrenaline. Iwaizumi watches the game intently from the stands, cheering and yelling and pumping his fists in the air as the game demands, explaining the last ten seconds in clipped sentences when clueless freshmen ask him why they’re all screaming. 

Oikawa stands with the guard on the other end of the stands, happy to dance along to the band’s peptunes and gossip with his section, oblivious to the game in front of him. 

Football games mean walking together across campus from their last class, watching the rest of the student body stream out of the gates while they head into the performing arts building, waving and nodding to their fellow band members crowded against the hallway. They push their way inside the band room, ignoring the organized chaos of two hundred band kids, dumping their bags in the locker room, next to Iwaizumi’s trombone case. Matsukawa and Hanamaki are already waiting by the double doors that lead to the parking lot outside. 

It’s ritual, the pregame trek to get food together. Marching band is just made up of doing the same things over and over in different combinations until it becomes second nature and your instrument feels like another limb. At some point in October, Iwaizumi always feels distinctly off balance if his trombone isn’t in his hands. He imagines it would fuck up his whole evening if the four of them didn’t do this before a game.

There’s a sidewalk that makes a long arc around the parking lot, ending at the street that separates the school and the strip mall where he and Oikawa got boba a month ago. The memory still lives in Iwaizumi’s head, and he thinks about it more often than he should. 

As they walk, he doesn’t miss the way Oikawa and Matsukawa talk to each other. They finish each other’s thoughts, laugh at jokes that Iwaizumi wasn’t there for. Oikawa is a touchy person by nature, but Matuskawa doesn’t shy away. They stand close, four people on a crowded sidewalk.

Iwaizumi looks down at where Matsukawa’s hand is twined into Hanamaki’s, and reminds himself that Oikawa and Matsukawa are friends. Matsukawa is in a relationship. Oikawa is a flirty person - he may have told Iwaizumi outright that he thought Mattsun was cute, but he’s not an asshole, and he’d never get between them. They’re his best friends, and that means something. 

He thinks all these things, but he still hates seeing the way Oikawa smiles at the things Matsukawa says. It’s subconscious, all of it - Iwaizumi’s jealousy is just as instinctual as Oikawa’s simple want to be close to his crush. But Iwaizumi takes a moment to breathe and shove his thoughts back down somewhere for the moment, because _jealousy_ is ugly and dumb and can easily ruin lifelong friendships. Even if Matsukawa was single, even if Iwaizumi wasn’t a coward enough to tell Oikawa how he felt, a relationship was something he shouldn’t entertain, even in his head. 

They cross over the street to see the strip mall bustling with high school kids, teenage drivers in hand-me-down cars, freshmen talking as they walk under the archway connecting the stores. The four of them jaywalk through the parking lot to their favorite place, the little restaurant that sits alone by the main road. The bell dings as they enter, the two cashiers wave, recognizing them as regulars. 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa go to get their usual, student-discounted order, and Iwaizumi picks a booth along the wall for them. He’s almost surprised when Oikawa slides in next to him. 

“Are you okay, Iwa-chan?”

“Huh?” It takes a second for him to process. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Really? You seem… off.”

“Just tired,” Iwaizumi lies.

When he looks up from his hands in his lap, Oikawa is watching his face with an emotion Iwaizumi can’t quite place. A second passes, then two seconds, and Oikawa hasn’t moved. 

“What?”

Oikawa startles, just slightly. “Oh. You had an eyelash,” he says, and brings his hand up slowly to brush his thumb under Iwaizumi’s eye. His gaze doesn’t leave Iwaizumi’s face.

Iwaizumi is pretty sure he isn’t breathing. “Did you get it?”

“Yeah,” replies Oikawa quickly, and finally drops his eyes to the table as Hanamaki and Matsukawa return with four paper cups. They say something, but Iwaizumi isn’t paying attention, and Oikawa doesn’t look at him again as the four of them gather by the fountain to get their sodas. Their food is delivered quickly, and things seem normal after that. Matsukawa cracks jokes, Hanamaki makes witty comments, Iwaizumi offers a well timed snort or chuckle, and the three of them poke fun at Oikawa easily. 

Iwaizumi thinks he could maybe be content with just this - thinks he _should_ be content with just this. It feels selfish to ask for anything more, but if he ignores it long enough, maybe the dumb pining over his best friend will go away.

They leave again to the sound of the bell above the door, all four of them cramming themselves out at the same time, childishly, and head back the way they came. This time the sidewalks are silent and the school parking lot is mostly empty, the tameness of after-school hours broken by their loud conversation. 

Hanamaki looks at his phone as he slurps down the last of his soda obnoxiously. “We’ve still got like an hour before call time.”

“We can go to the guard room,” Oikawa offers with a shrug, and they follow him back through the unlocked doors of the performing arts building, down the hall, and around the corner of the band room where a door leads to a squarish room filled with props and equipment. 

The guard room was once meant as a practice room, Iwaizumi thinks, which is why it’s so well insulated. The benefit of that is that it’s a quiet place to get away from the rest of the band, and a popular spot for the guard and guard-adjacent band members to hang out. He’s a little surprised the room is empty now. 

The downside to good insulation is that it’s fucking freezing in there. Iwaizumi realizes right as Oikawa digs behind a pile of aluminum practice flags to retrieve two cheap fleece blankets, throwing one at the drum majors sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Matsukawa nods at him with his ever-present smirk, draping it over himself and his boyfriend. 

“Hands above the blanket,” Iwaizumi warns under his breath, sparing them a glare.

“Come on, Iwa, we have a _game_ soon,” Hanamaki rolls his eyes, “Who are you, the band director?”

Iwaizumi grumbles back at him, plopping down on the floor. “Where’s my blanket, Shittykawa?”

“There’s only two, Iwa-chan, we’ll have to share,” Oikawa informs him, bouncing down to his place at Iwaizumi’s left side, close enough that the sides of their thighs touch, and Iwaizumi prays no one in the room notices how hot his face gets. Then Oikawa shifts, moving just slightly away as he throws the blanket over both of them, and Iwaizumi’s heart falls to the bottom of his stomach. Right. Friends. 

“Music?” Oikawa asks, eyebrows raised. “Iwa-chan?” 

Iwaizumi looks up at him, surprised. “I’m surprised you’re not chomping at the bit to play your electro-pop bullshit.”

“You’d just bitch about it anyway,” replies Oikawa, feigning an offended pout. “And I like your music. Sometimes. When I’m in the mood.” 

“Hope you‘re in the mood for it, then,” he shrugs, throwing his phone into the center of the circle. 

There’s the opening twang of the Arctic Monkeys’ _When the Sun Goes Down,_ and Hanamaki sighs. “Is this that new wave playlist? Do you listen to anything else?”

“No, those songs just happen to be on it. I don’t make the rules on good music, I just follow them-”

“ _What a scummy man… give him half a chance I bet he’ll rob you if you can,”_ Oikawa’s singing along under his breath.

“You know this song?” Iwaizumi asks him, dumbstruck.

Oikawa gives him a look in lieu of an answer, holding up a finger as he keeps going, “ _You can see it in his eyes yeah, that he’s got a driving ban amongst some other offenses…_ I said I liked your music. Sometimes. You only listen to this one all the time.”

Iwaizumi reads way further into that than he thinks he should, and stumbles through an “Oh,” as Oikawa keeps going, singing along properly now, starting to bob his head as the song speeds up and transitions into the bridge. 

At that point it’s impossible for them all not to move with the music, and Oikawa’s energy is contagious as he karaokes to an audience of three. Iwaizumi’s mouthing along the lyrics with him, Mattsun and Makki pretending to be the guitarist and drummer in their made-up band. 

The next song up is _Are You Gonna Be My Girl_ , and all of them know the lyrics to that one. His friends might give him shit, but Iwaizumi has damn good music taste and he knows it. 

Oikawa is up off the floor at this point. Iwaizumi is only upset about this development for a minute, because watching him dance on the balls of his feet and sing into the imaginary microphone in his fist is one of the greatest things he’s ever seen. 

It suddenly gets less funny when the music pauses, and Oikawa sings the titular line, one hand outstretched to point at Iwaizumi still sitting on the floor, and his eyes crinkling with his smile. 

_I said are you gonna be my girl?_

If he wasn’t frowning so hard in an attempt to force down his giddy smile, he’s sure his mouth would be hanging open. This is some sick joke the universe is playing on him, after he just said he was going to _ignore it_ and _move on_. 

Oikawa has the mercy to turn away and sing to himself for the rest of the song and one that plays after. 

Matsukawa leans forward on his elbows, across the circle, and says something about the football team they’re playing tonight. Iwaizumi is thankful for the distraction. 

He talks mindlessly with Matsukawa about football for a handful of minutes, Hanamaki entertaining himself by watching Oikawa dramatically dance to the ABBA song he'd queued when Iwaizumi wasn't paying attention. They’re all suddenly interrupted by the alarm going off on Hanamaki’s phone. 

He shuts it off quickly, but it startles the other three in the room nonetheless. 

“Aw, you set an alarm? How responsible, Mr. Drum Major,” laughs Oikawa, the sound of the music shutting off abruptly when he leans down to hit pause on Iwaizumi’s phone.

“Hush and go put your uniform on,” Hanamaki replies, freeing himself from the shared blanket and standing with a groan from having long legs cramped on the floor. They all move in tandem, wordlessly, throwing the blankets back to the corner where they belong and moving to walk out the door. As soon as Oikawa cracks it open there’s the sounds of bustling band kids and football game preparations. Something switches in his gut - it’s performance time.

The four of them split off, with Iwaizumi heading back to the brass locker room to change into summer uniform - the black shirt with the show logo on the back, black socks, and blue shorts. Most of the other band kids milling around the band room are already in summer uniform, gathered in pairs to help each other change into full uniform. 

“Kyoutani,” Iwaizumi says as he pulls on his shoes, sitting on a baritone case, “Do you need a uniform buddy?”

“Sorry, I’m with Yahaba,” replies Kyoutani simply, swinging his marching shoes over his shoulder and padding barefoot out of the locker room. 

Iwaizumi sighs. At this point in the semester, most people have already paired up with someone to help put on their uniform - it shouldn’t touch the ground and the jacket zips up in the back. It used to be him and Oikawa, back in their first year when Oikawa still played flute. When Oikawa switched to guard, Iwaizumi would awkwardly tag along with Matsukawa and Hanamaki, but now they had their fancy drum major uniforms and Iwaizumi felt like he was intruding on one of their small intimacies. 

He sighs, heading to the uniform closet line to grab his uniform and shako box for himself. He’d look around and maybe find a freshman who was struggling, and then at least he’d be helpful. 

Instead, he sees Oikawa waiting next to the guard room door, across from the uniform closet, already dressed in his uniform. Iwaizumi steps to the side before he holds up the line, wondering if his jaw is hanging open.

“Need a uniform buddy?” Oikawa asks, and if Iwaizumi _is_ staring, then he’s unfazed.

“Yeah, I do,” Iwaizumi says. Oikawa simply peels himself off the wall, heading to the outside hallway of the performing arts building to find them a spot.

They end up near a corner, where the hallway diverges towards the bus lane in one direction and the auditorium in another. Oikawa waits as Iwaizumi sets his hat box down and unzips the uniform bag, laying in on the carpet and kicking his shoes off before stepping onto the blue plastic. Oikawa takes the hanger from his hands, holding it steady, and Iwaizumi undoes the heavy jacket to retrieve the overalls from where they’re folded neatly over the hanger from their last game. 

The pants are dark blue, a stark contrast to the white pants of the drum major uniforms. The jacket is white with blue accents - epaulets, aiguillette, collar, cross-body belt, and thick embroidery in lines across the front and on the gauntlets. A lighter-colored sash wrapped around the bottom of the jacket, matching the light blue tinsel in the shako's plume. 

Oikawa’s colorguard uniform was similarly gorgeous, a light blue top with long, sheer sleeves that transitioned into leggings of the same color. A half-skirt was attached to the sides of the leggings so it wrapped around him and moved as he did. It was the same teal gradient as the uniform, but overlaid with a print of purple-pink galaxies and constellations, matching the theme of their show. 

Oikawa takes two steps forward, and Iwaizumi turns to let him zip up the back of his jacket. Iwaizumi is acutely aware of the sound of the zipper, and Oikawa’s hand on his shoulder, the others around them going through the same process of getting into uniform fading to a blur. 

Wordlessly, Iwaizumi takes a knee to re-tie his shoes, and Oikawa waits for him. He stands once that’s finished, collecting the uniform bag off the floor and replacing the hanger inside. 

“Well, I’d better go get my flags,” Oikawa says uselessly, as if he needs an excuse to justify leaving Iwaizumi’s presence. 

“Better grab that shiny new rifle too.”

“I assure you that none of the rifles this school has are shiny _or_ new.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “In any case, they’re new to you, and better not fuck up your routine the first night you perform it.”

“Wow, _thanks,_ Iwa-chan. Now I’m feeling super confident.”

“Good,” he replies, ignoring Oikawa’s sarcasm and good-naturedly punching him in the arm instead.

“ _OW,_ I need that arm to spin!”

“You’ll be fine. Break a leg.” Iwaizumi tucks the uniform bag over his arm, grabs his hat box, and walks back to the band room. 

For a while, that’s the last time Iwaizumi sees Oikawa. Sure, he _sees_ him - across the courtyard, mingling with the guard while the rest of the trombones gather behind Iwaizumi; looking down at the bottom of the bleachers to see him dancing to _Take on Me_ ; warming up with the guard on the track while the second quarter of the game winds to its close on the field. Iwaizumi sees him, but doesn’t get to talk to him, doesn’t get to hear his comments under his breath, or laugh over an inside joke, or even just sit next to him on the bleachers like they do at competitions, waiting together with held breath to see how Seijoh places. 

Football games are different from competitions. They’re both performances, but football games are more about fun and spirit, playing until your chops are sore in the stands and marching a show just for the hell of it. If competitions are designed to perform to the judges, then games are about performing to the crowd. If just one person walks away from the show happier than they were before, it was a show well done. 

The whistle blows at the end of quarter two, and they’re already lined up on the sideline and ready to march on. Iwaizumi doesn’t remember much of what happens next - he never does. Marching band kids will joke about blacking out and waking up to a finished show, but it’s true; in the moment, Iwaizumi just knows the music under his fingers and the forms under his feet, and he does them without thinking, because he just knows. 

(He sees Oikawa again, just once, but it’s all flashes of blue and teal, of brown hair and stage makeup, of silks printed with the same galaxies Iwaizumi feels when he watches him).

When he comes to from the rush of marching, he’s pulling his trombone _off and down_ and staring with his chin up at a crowd roaring with applause. There’s seven taps of the snare and all of them step off on the eighth, moving back off the field. As soon as his feet hit the track on the edge of the field the illusion breaks, all of them falling out of set to laugh and congratulate each other on a good show. 

The football game is against Date Tech - which means the band is visiting, and after a few encouraging words from their director, they’re free to mingle. Seijoh’s band waves as Date Tech makes their way over, but Iwaizumi doesn’t have any friends there and no real desire to spend time with them, so he goes looking for his friends instead. 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa will be exchanging pleasantries (and if they’re lucky, snacks) with Moniwa and Futakuchi, and it’s surprisingly hard for Iwaizumi to find a six-foot tall boy clad in bright teal, so he spends more time than he would like winding amongst his peers. 

Oikawa finds him first. 

Iwaizumi hears his voice, spins around and there he is, his hip cocked to the side and his hand resting on it, grinning at him. Iwaizumi grins back, just like he always does. 

“How did the riflework go?”

“Didn’t fuck it up, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Nice job.”

“How’d your show go?”

“I didn’t trip this time.”

“Ha! Good.”

There’s still a good foot of space between them, the rest of the band already breaking off into a disorganized mess of friends, acquaintances, strangers. They stay there for a second, just watching each other, still riding the high of a good halftime. 

Then Iwaizumi takes a step forward. “Let’s go find the other two losers.”

Two division one bands together means the end of the track is a mess to work through. There’s a game of Ride That Pony going on in the middle of the masses, with at least three dozen kids playing at the moment, and no doubt more to come. It’s loud, physically and metaphorically, the energy surrounding all of them stifling. 

“I can’t see them,” Oikawa whines. “Iwa-chan, can I get on your back?”

“You’re already taller than half the people here, and they’re wearing _white-”_

“So is Date Tech! Oh c’mon, you can carry me.”

“Fine,” Iwaizumi says, and Oikawa jumps up and Iwaizumi hoists him into a more comfortable position, legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his shoulders. Oikawa leans his weight to see above the crowd, and Iwaizumi almost drops him. 

“Careful!”

“Sorry! I think they’re over there? By our side of the bleachers.”

Without warning, Iwaizumi takes off running in that direction, Oikawa squawking indignantly and tightening his grip around Iwaizumi’s neck. Iwaizumi can’t stop laughing. 

And afterwards, when the third quarter has ended and the fourth is about to begin, when they’ve said their goodbyes to Date Tech and start picking instruments and hats back up off the ground where they were laid neatly before, Iwaizumi catches the half-skirt of Oikawa’s uniform fluttering behind him as he walks back to the bleachers. 

And he thinks, _maybe I’m a little in love with my best friend._

They win the game - not easily, but easily enough. They play the fight song one last time for the crowd, yelling and cheering and screaming, giddy with energy on the march back to the band room. 

Compared to how loud it was just minutes ago, the band room is near silent, only filled with the rustling of uniform bags and metallic sound of zippers. They’re all dead tired, including Iwaizumi, and he can start to feel the exhaustion seeping into his bones even while he’s folding his gloves back into his hat box and snapping it closed, leaving his shako to rest for the next performance. 

His tired underclassmen gather their backpacks and find their way out the door, and Iwaizumi waves goodbye to them. He knows it’ll be the four of them left - Hanamaki and Matsukawa will do a sweep of the band room and be the last out the door, save for the director. Iwaizumi, his summer uniform sticking uncomfortably to his skin and feet aching from standing on hard aluminum bleachers for hours, will go through the locker rooms, throwing discarded jackets in the lost and found and pushing instrument cases back against the walls. Oikawa, hair still crunchy with hairspray, makeup still on, and a pair of sweats replacing the intricate costume from before, will be in the guard room, making sure each flag has a bag and each bag has a place. He’ll be the last to finish, so the other three will join him there, and they’ll walk out together. 

Iwaizumi isn’t sure what compels him to do so, but right as Hanamaki and Oikawa push through the guard room doors, just like what happened to them hours before, Iwaizumi is left alone with Matsukawa for a split second. 

“Mattsun? Can I tell you something?”

Matsukawwa turns around, concern on his face. “Yeah? What is it?”

“It’s nothing bad-”

That’s a lie, that’s a complete lie, because nothing about this is good, Iwaizumi said he was going to get over it and here he is-

“-I just realized something today.”

In the back of his mind, he’s acutely aware that it’s probably _jealousy_ spurring him on, that even though he got his _moment_ with Oikawa earlier and they’re closer than Oikawa and Mattsun are and probably will ever be, Iwaizumi feels like he has to tell him this anyway, just in case. As if Iwaizumi isn’t convinced he won’t lose Oikawa to Matsukawa.

“I think… I have a thing for Oikawa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont look at me, i know. they're kids in high school and they're silly and i love them  
> things in this fic that happened to me: crush staring at me and then when i caught them saying i had an eyelash. giving them a piggyback ride during third quarter. confessing my crush and starting a love triangle in the guard room. my life is a fic
> 
> there is a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/42ohCYH7Nty4JmsbezJGTw?si=LWDWyOA6Tw-P8i9W4jCMow) for this fic now! the first four songs are the new new wave show  
> [this](https://www.ultimatecampresource.com/camp-videos/camp-games-with-videos/ride-that-pony/) is the ride the pony game if you don't know (i didnt until we played it) but with a group that large you have several people in the middle.
> 
> come yell with me abt marching band on [twitter](https://twitter.com/petalbridges)


	3. float on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [goro akechi voice] hello, lgbt,q,, community!
> 
> I hope everyone is well during the Holidays, taking care of yourself and others as best as you can, and doing something that makes you happy.  
> for me, that was write an obscene amount of words about winterguard. and sometimes, that's okay  
> (for those who might not know, winterguard takes the colorguard aspects of a marching band - the dancing, flags, and rifle, among other props - and creates a show featuring only them, as opposed to the colorguard being an integrated part of the band.)

_I ran my mouth off a bit too much, oh what did I say?_

_Well you just laughed it off, it was all okay_

_(And we’ll all float on, okay)_

Months pass, practices and football games and competitions and little moments in between that Iwaizumi doesn’t remember.

Some things he does remember. Like the football semi-finals in November, where they were invited to play in the stands. It had been cold that time of year, the sun setting early and far before the game had ended. Their director told them to wear long pants and jackets under the uniform, and allowed the guard to wear jackets over theirs, in anticipation for the cold, but Oikawa - the stubborn idiot - didn’t bother. He didn’t complain about it either, but in the last minutes of the second quarter Iwaizumi excused himself to the bathroom, took off the sweatshirt underneath the thick wool of his uniform coat, and threw it at Oikawa on his walk back into the stands. 

“I don’t want your sweaty jacket, Iwa-chan,” he’d said, even as he pulled it over his head (carefully, so as not to mess up his hair or his makeup). 

“You’re welcome,” Iwaizumi replied as he turned to take the stairs two at a time back to where the trombones were standing. 

Later, after their unfortunate loss to a football team Iwaizumi didn’t remember the name of, Oikawa slid into their shared bus seat beside him, curled up with his knees pressed to the seatback in front of them and muttered, “Thanks.” He was still wearing the jacket. 

“Are you okay?” asked Iwaizumi immediately. Even if he hadn’t picked up on how small Oikawa’s voice was, how he shut his eyes against the light and buried his head in his crossed arms, Iwaizumi had seen him talk to the parents in charge of the medical box in the fourth quarter. 

Oikawa replies, so quiet he barely hears, “Migraine.”

“Do you need anything?”

He shakes his head slowly, hair brushing against the fabric of Iwaizumi’s jacket. “Jus’ quiet.”

So Iwaizumi plugs in his headphones and pretends not to notice when Oikawa’s sleeping form flops against his side and nestles into his shoulder. _New New Wave_ has grown and changed into more than just the four songs of before. Now it’s the playlist that makes Iwaizumi Hajime think of his awful, terrible crush.

They stop for a grocery run on the way home, the buses letting them off at a Safeway that generously allowed some two hundred exhausted band kids the opportunity to find some sustenance among its wares. Oikawa stirs in response to the bus’s stop, blinking with sleep-crusted eyes at Iwaizumi. 

“How’s your head?”

“Lil’ better,” slurs Oikawa in response. Iwaizumi starts to climb over him into the aisle, but Oikawa grabs his wrist lightly. “I’ll come in.” 

He’s obviously still out of it, his movements languid and his eyes squinting against the streetlamps. Normally his long strides would force Iwaizumi to walk fast to keep up, but now they both walk unhurriedly, side by side, so close that their fingertips almost brush. 

The lights inside the store are too bright, especially compared to how dark it was outside. The fluorescent lights burn shapes behind Iwaizumi’s eyelids, and he can’t imagine how bad it is for Oikawa, who stays wrapped up in his borrowed hoodie, hood draped over his head.His hand is lightly clutching Iwaizumi’s sleeve. 

“Are you getting anything? Might help your head,” suggests Iwaizumi.

“Didn’t bring my wallet.” 

“Well… lemme know if you see something. I’ll grab it for you.” 

They’re not in there for long, just enough for Iwaizumi to grab a pre-made sandwich and some juice. Oikawa doesn’t make any indication that he wants something - until they pass by a bakery display on the way to checkout, and he pauses. Iwaizumi follows his gaze to a plastic box of four buttermilk biscuits. 

He nods towards the biscuits. “Grab them.”

“It’s fine-” Oikawa starts, but Iwaizumi cuts him off. 

“It’s not a problem. You should really eat something, even if it’s small.”

Oikawa’s mouth turns into a frown but he grabs and hands them off to Iwaizumi anyway. “Thank you.” 

His eyes are half closed and downcast away from the light as they walk back to their bus. Oikawa assumes his same spot as before, curled up into the seat, biscuit tin on his knees. Iwaizumi watches him break one apart with his hands. It’s dry and crumbly and dense, pale in the dark of the bus, falling back onto the plastic with little warbly sounds. Iwaizumi eats his sandwich and Oikawa manages a biscuit and a half, barely clasping the clamshell tin back together before he’s once again asleep on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Iwaizumi drifts off with him. 

_There is a second - not even a second, just a moment, but to Iwaizumi it feels entirely too long - where Matsukawa stares at him blankly and his blood goes cold in his veins, anxiety welling up in his stomach. Then Mattsun breaks out into a grin, big and genuine and maybe a little smug, and says “That’s so fucking cute.”_

_Iwaizumi squawks, indignant, “It’s not cute?!”_

_“It is!” Matsukawa laughs. “Okay, I love this. I feel like I saw it coming-”_

_“What do you mean you saw-”_

_“Just the way you two act! I’m so here for this. Do you think he’s into you?”_

_Iwaizumi doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s been helping Oikawa through the heartbreak of chasing an unrequited, impossible crush while living through his own._

_Hanamaki calls for them from the band room. Matsukawa glances at the door, then back at him._

_“Anyway, I love this. So much. We’re texting about this later, cool? OH - can I tell Hiro? Please? He’ll think it’s cute, too.”_

_“Yeah,” Iwaizumi stutters, feeling the relief of someone finally knowing and the anxiety of digging himself into a hole crash together. Matsukawa claps him on the shoulder, still grinning._

_He and Iwaizumi walk out of the guard room double doors._

In December, amidst the last few weeks of classes before the break, the colorguard captain announces that, for the first time, they’re officially opening up the winterguard to members of the band. 

He doesn’t expect Oikawa to pester him about it. “I can’t do guard,” he insists. “I can’t dance.”

“I’m sure you can dance,” sing-songs Oikawa, walking alongside him. “Even if you did have two left feet, guard’s about other things too! Like strength - you wouldn’t even have to _try_ to toss a double, I bet.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You would, if you came to the clinic!”

Oikawa is hard to say no too, especially for Iwaizumi. “I’ll think about it.”

They’ve made it to the parking lot by now, heading to Iwaizumi’s car first as his spot is closest to the building. Iwaizumi dumps his backpack and trombone case unceremoniously in the backseat, then opens the driver’s side door to climb in. Oikawa’s still standing there, watching him, one arm clenched around his backpack strap and the other hanging limp and useless at his side. 

“What?” Iwaizumi asks. 

Oikawa startles, as if he hadn’t been paying attention. “Oh, nothing,” he replies. 

“Do you want a ride to your car?”

“If you don’t mind?” Oikawa says slyly, raising his eyebrows. Iwaizumi just sighs, falling into the driver’s seat, Oikawa hopping to the passenger side and sliding in next to him. 

“Seatbelt on.”

He pouts, but reaches around to grab the belt from beside his shoulder. “It’s a two second drive to the end of the parking lot, Iwa-chan!” 

“Don’t matter. Seatbelt on.” 

Oikawa huffs. He’s quickly distracted by Iwa’s phone buzzing with a text message. “Oo, what did Mattsun say?” 

Iwaizumi’s immediate reaction is _panic,_ and he has to resist the urge to grab the phone out of his hands. “What did he say,” he chokes out, mouth dry. 

“Just the crown emoji and the kissy face emoji,” Oikawa reports, scowling. “What are you two talking about, hm?”

He lets his jaw unclench. “That’s just an inside joke.”

“What does it mean?”

“You had to be there. That’s what an inside joke is.”

“Iwa-chan, I wanna know!” 

He is thankfully saved by the end of the parking lot, and consequently, Oikawa’s car. His friend continues to grumble at him even as he shoos him out the door and then locks it, half in jest and half for his own peace of mind. Oikawa gives up and rolls his eyes, stalking to his car, and Iwaizumi watches him settle in, fix his bangs in the rearview mirror, and turn the key before he pulls away. 

Left alone in the parking lot, he opens the text from Matsukawa. 

The text that Oikawa saw is the only one from today. He wasn’t lying when he said it was an inside joke - after a few weeks of teasing him, Matsukawa had taken to just sending him a crown emoji whenever he saw Iwaizumi and Oikawa together. _Typing things out is too much work, plus, now I can send you shit and he won’t figure it out,_ he’d said, but the truth was sending a crown and any variation of a heart emoji made Iwaizumi turn red faster than anything Matsukawa could say in words. 

Iwaizumi sends back a middle finger emoji and drives home. 

On the second-to-last week of school, right before break, Iwaizumi dutifully heads to the band room, just like he does every other day after school.

Except this time, Oikawa is trotting along at his side and absolutely delighted, because he finally wore down Iwaizumi enough for him to join the winterguard clinics. 

(In truth, Iwaizumi had already made up his mind about joining winterguard, but he let Oikawa believe he had to work to convince him anyway.)

Oikawa goes to change, and Iwaizumi waits for him on the floor of the band room, propped up against a wall. He’s already in sweats and a t-shirt, because in these last few days of school he cares more about being comfortable than keeping up appearances, even if Oikawa insists he has that kind of “casual athleticism” that makes joggers look good on him anyway. 

He digs into the leftovers of his lunch and watches the crowd roll in. A few band kids come and go, waving to him as they pass. He recognizes some of the guard girls in the corner, cliquey as ever, their voices and laughs shrill. Then, through the doors, walks one Matsukawa Issei and one Hanamaki Takahiro.

“Aw, did Oikawa convince you to join winterguard?” Matsukawa quips as they plop down next to him, going right in for the kill. 

Iwaizumi sputters, but says, “No, I decided to join on my own.” Hanamaki wordlessly reaches over to steal a chip from Iwaizumi’s lunch, and he swats his hand but lets him take it anyway. 

“But Oikawa was a factor in that decision,” Matsukawa presses. 

“I can neither confirm nor deny Oikawa may have been a factor.” 

He and Matsukawa had been friends before Iwaizumi admitted his crush in the guard room, but in the last few months, they’d really started to become close. It was ironic how what started as jealousy had developed in a genuine relationship. Texts about Oikawa turned into just _texts_ , times with just the two of them weren’t awkward anymore, and Iwaizumi realized that he really liked hanging around Matsukawa. 

“Mhm. Alright,” smirks Mattsun. “Speak of the devil.” 

Oikawa walks back into the band room with his school clothes thrown over his arm and replaced by joggers and an old marching competition t-shirt. He smiles as soon as he sees his friends, waving with his free hand. “You all made it! I’m so excited!” 

“Hiro and I are just here to see how it goes. I hear Iwaizumi’s pretty excited, though,” Matsukawa smacks Iwaizumi on the back - rather hard, in fact - and hauls himself up off the floor. “Tell us what we’re doing, Captain.” 

Oikawa directs them all to kick off their shoes and space out on the floor for stretches. Matsukawa very pointedly shoves Iwaizumi next to Oikawa, and he and Hanamaki retreat to the back together. Oikawa fiddles with his phone at the front of the room, connecting it to a lone speaker that sits on the carpet, and when the calm music begins to play he steps back, breathes, and leads them through stretches. 

Iwaizumi’s stretched before, sure, in band and at summer volleyball camps and on his own. It’s nothing like this. They’re following a routine that feels like something out of a ballet studio - twisting around, folding over, pointed toes and graceful fingers reaching up and over, closed eyes and calm breaths. He feels muscles he’s never used before pull and unwind, tension unknotting, and despite the strain it’s strangely relaxing. 

Oikawa unfurls himself from something Iwaizumi forgot the name of, where one leg is folded under him and the other is behind, bent at the knee and his hands reaching back to pull his foot towards him. Iwaizumi is doing the easier version of the pose, with his back leg fully outstretched instead of bent and his front folded at a larger angle. He too unfolds himself until he’s once again cross-legged on the floor. 

“Anyone up for the splits?” Oikawa grins, to a chorus of groans. “C’mon, it’s not that bad. Just sit up on your back knee, like this…other leg out in front of you… and see how far you can go.” 

The others try it, many surprised to see that they can go further than they think. It’s more for fun than for the stretch, what was once collective focused silence turning into conversation and laughs. Iwaizumi can’t get anywhere close to the full splits. He looks up to see that Oikawa can. 

_This is just unfair,_ he thinks, staring at the ground again. 

They transition to flags, and Iwaizumi expects the rest of the clinic to be frustratingly difficult, for flagwork to require more dexterity than he possesses. He is surprised to find that while the feel of an aluminum pole in his hand is new, it’s not bad. Even without long legs, he can still be graceful and light, catching onto across-the-floors within a few reps. His thick wrists and calloused hands are still able to twist and swing the flag through the air, swirling it up and around behind his back in a steady flourish. And when they start with tosses, he sees that it doesn’t take much effort for his strong arms to coax the flag up and around into a full rotation, landing back - albeit clumsily - in his arms. 

It’s fun.

Oikawa doesn’t pester Iwaizumi about the second clinic. In fact, it’s Iwaizumi who asks when it is, and who says he’ll be there. He doesn’t say it to see Oikawa’s smile, but it’s certainly a bonus. 

Music has always belonged to Iwaizumi and Oikawa. They traded CDs when they were eight and YouTube links when they were twelve and Spotify playlists when they were sixteen. They laid on the floor, one earbud each, content in each other’s comfort and bonded by listening to the same things. 

Band belonged to them too. They both learned to play in elementary school, getting through the years of being downright terrible, learning how to make music from curled up tubes of brass and delicate, interconnected buttons. They both played in middle school, spent lunch periods in the band room instead of the cafeteria. They both fell in love with marching band and put their all into it when they got to high school. But they were always separate, different instruments and different sections, different music - and, after Oikawa’s switch to colorguard, completely different perspectives on the field. 

Now, with winterguard, they’re on the same page. Now Iwaizumi understands the persona of performance (the one Oikawa is so good at putting forward, on and off the field) and the thrill of moving in tandem with the flag, of having control over something capable of being both powerful and beautiful. 

After the conclusion of the second clinic, where Iwaizumi helps pick up the band room and put away flags, Oikawa says, “I’m glad you’re spinning with me.” 

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi presses, smiling. His hands still where they’re rolling up a flag back around the pole. 

“Yeah,” replies Oikawa, “It’s the feeling of sharing something you love with someone who means a lot to you.”

Winter break ends. The new year begins. Coming back to school is a familiar breath of fresh air. 

His parking spot isn’t far from the performing arts building, but the walk to campus is still atrociously cold. Thankfully the building itself is open and he can sit up against the wall, legs stretched out into the hallway, to while away the hour before the first bell on his phone. 

Matsukawa is the first person he sees. 

Or, more accurately, Matsukawa leans down to put himself in Iwaizumi’s field of vision, his curly hair obscuring the latest scores for the UC Irvine men’s basketball team. 

“Hi, Iwa-chan!”

Iwaizumi looks at him with the most disappointed glare he can muster. “Don’t do that.” 

Matsukawa takes a seat next to him on the dirty carpet of the performing arts building’s hallway, tucking long legs under himself as best he can in black skinny jeans. “Oh, is your Oikawa the only one who gets to call you nicknames? Sorry.”

He smiles despite himself, giving Matsukawa a not-so good-natured shove backwards. “Lower your voice. And don’t call him _my_ Oikawa.” 

“Could be, if he already isn’t,” the other boy points out. “Did you spend the break thinking about how you’re asking him to prom?” 

Iwaizumi’s shy smile turns to confusion quickly. “What the fuck.”

“So you’re not asking him to prom?”

“I didn’t say- it’s _January.”_

“Prom’s in April. Gotta start planning now, is all I’m saying.” 

With a sigh, Iwaizumi drops his gaze, fingers picking absentmindedly at the carpet. “I don’t know if I can ask him to prom. I don’t know. ‘Cause if he didn’t want to go as more than friends, well, that’d just fuck things up between us, right?”

Matsukawa’s mouth falls slack. This isn’t a new train of thought - they’ve talked about Iwaizumi’s fears and hesitations before, but over text. Seeing the conflict painted on his face is different. 

He ponders whether he should say something, or move to sit next to him, or change the subject. But now, knowing Iwaizumi a little better than he did five months ago, he opts to stand up silently and leave him be. The first bell rings. 

The day of auditions, Iwaizumi is restless, breezing through hours of school with only guard in mind. Oikawa had already told him not to worry too much, but his fears are further assuaged by the guard coach before try-outs even begin. “This isn’t an audition so much as a way for me to gauge what you’re comfortable doing,” she explains to the two-dozen band kids gathered in a loose group in the band room. “You all made the team, as far as I’m concerned. I’m teaching you all how to spin.” 

Iwaizumi’s anxiety turns to giddy anticipation and excitement, only amplified by Oikawa turning over his shoulder so shoot him a grin. 

The first thing they do as a guard isn’t even stretches - it’s turning the lights off and listening to the song their show will be set to. 

Oikawa lies on the floor and closes his eyes. Iwaizumi follows his lead. 

After years of marching band, where shows revolve around energy, volume, and big moments, Iwaizumi quickly realizes that winterguard is entirely different. The song begins with a slow buildup that reminds him of wind in the nighttime, dark blues and greys that fall into soft drum beats. The tempo itself is slow and yet the music is all movement, and though he doesn’t know much about dancing he can already feel the pushes and pulls and how they’ll translate into the gentle motion of limbs. 

_I hear your heart, as it beats beneath the sound of crashing cars,_

_The sirens pour into every street surrounding us, our world caves in on us, and makes us new._

Each enunciation is an instrument in and of itself, the hard sizzle of _c_ s like well-timed cymbals. The words are both poetically nonsensical and innately interconnected, strung into something he understands but doesn’t. 

The second stanza after the buildup of the chorus is like listening underwater, a steady progression that builds and builds in quiet strings and quick taps of a snare until it breaks the surface tension into the last chorus.

“This would be the feature,” says the guard captain, quietly enough that it doesn’t break the flow of the song, and sure enough, the end of the song is all the ribbons of color together at once, weaving together in a bright finale. 

_All our love came out of the woodwork, all our strength came out of the woodwork,_

Iwaizumi feels a pinky finger brush against his own, and maybe wrap around it - he’s too caught up in an ending that leaves the song resolved but wanting, as if there’s more to be said - and when he opens his eyes to the following silence, his hand is alone on the carpet. 

Winterguard practices bring back the comfort of routine. Once again it’s the four of them walking to get an after-school snack, or spending time in the guard room together, or sitting in Iwaizumi’s car listening to music as he and Oikawa fight over who gets the aux cord. Technically it’s Iwaizumi’s turn, but he defects to Oikawa anyway, who queues up electro-pop dance music that gives him flashbacks to middle school. 

“What song is this? Sounds familiar, is it one of our pep tunes?” 

Oikawa rolls his eyes at him, throws his head back on the headrest and sighs. “Yes, it’s one of the stand tunes, but oh my god. Have you never heard of Cascada, Iwa-chan? Have I failed you?”

His question ends right as the chorus begins, and as soon as Iwaizumi hears _‘cause every time we touch, I feel the static,_ he says, stupidly, “Oh, yeah. I know this one. Good song.”

But after Iwaizumi asks the names of the next three songs that play, too, Oikawa says, “You’re so uncultured. I’m sending you this playlist.” 

The text appears near instantaneously. _Link: Revenge of Techno, a playlist by Oikawa Tooru on Spotify._

“ _Revenge of Techno_?”

“Yeah, cause like,” Oikawa waves his hand in the air, looking for words. “It’s that old genre of aughts techno, but making a comeback. Revenge of techno.” 

Iwaizumi scrolls through the playlist, and adds a few songs to _New New Wave_.

The first competition comes after the frost of deep winter has passed, the sun reappearing in the mornings and painting grey into yellow. Slowly the days get warmer, the light lasting longer, sweatshirts traded for t-shirts and long socks for bare feet. 

The second Saturday in March is the date of their first performance, practices coming together into a show that’s become ingrained in muscle memory and that plays in Iwaizumi’s mind when he listens to _Woodwork_ by Sleeping At Last. The concept of putting together a costume - of wearing something besides his sturdy white and blue Seijoh band uniform - is new, even if that something is just grey pants and a black, high-necked shirt that flows with his movements. 

Makeup is entirely foreign. Oikawa tells him not to worry about that (and he trusts him) so now he stands alone on Oikawa’s front porch two hours before their call time, already in his costume and flag bag slung over his shoulder. 

Oikawa’s sister opens the door. 

“Oh, hi, Yukari nee-san,” he says, a little self-conscious despite knowing Oikawa’s sister was a member of Seijoh’s colorguard years ago. She only beams at him. 

“Hajime! You’re here! Tooru was going stir-crazy wondering when you’d show,” she jokes, stepping back so he can enter the house. 

“Was not!” comes Oikawa’s protesting voice from what Iwaizumi assumes is the kitchen, but Yukari just shakes her head and he ducks further into the entryway so she won’t see the way his cheeks heat. 

Oikawa’s sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, assorted makeup materials spread across its surface. He turns to Iwaizumi, his understated grey-blue eyeshadow half-done, and Iwaizumi blinks. 

“I gotta finish up with Tooru, and then I can do your makeup, is that cool?” Yukari asks him. 

It takes him a second too long to process, but she accepts his stuttered yes without fuss, turning back to her little brother. 

Thankfully, Yukari is the only person in the world who talks more than Oikawa does, and she engages Iwaizumi in mindless chatter as she fiddles with the mascara wand. He answers her questions thoughtfully - he always enjoyed talking to Yukari - happy to be distracted from Oikawa done up in stage makeup. 

She kicks Oikawa out of the chair not seconds after she sprays his hair one last time with hairspray so potent it makes Iwaizumi cough. “Don’t light a match,” she warns with a laugh, running through Oikawa’s bangs with her fingers. “Okay Hajime, you’re up next.” 

Having his makeup done is unfamiliar and a little out of his comfort zone, but Yukari is effortlessly patient with him. 

“I used to do my own makeup for football games all the time. Taught Tooru everything he knows. If I had a dollar for every time I had to do my eyeliner on a moving bus, I’d be rich. Here,” she holds out a neutral colored lipstick, waiting for his approval, before she swipes it across his bottom lip. He thinks he’s imagining Oikawa’s eyes boring into him from across the kitchen. “Press your lips together like this,” Yukari instructs, demonstrating, and after he does she leans in again to fill in his cupid’s bow. “Perfect. Ready to head out?” 

Yukari drives them to the school, shoving Oikawa in the backseat with Iwaizumi. They sit together on the floor of the band room for last minute announcements, too, and on the bus to the competition. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t notice that they’ve been together all day until they’re apart, in the hallway of the hosting school’s gymnasium waiting for the performance before them to conclude. Oikawa’s distinctly missing from his side and standing pressed up against the cool brick wall, no doubt running through the show in his head, eyes closed. Against his better judgement, Iwaizumi looks out the door and into the gym, ignoring the superstition of bad luck at watching the other team’s performance, and imagines it’s him with graceful movements and perfectly timed tosses, chin up towards the judges, exuding pride and confidence. 

They’re called forward. He runs on bare feet to the gym floor, prepping and setting flags like he’s practiced, feet carrying him towards his opening set. He has twenty long seconds frozen on the floor, tensed and ready, eyes downcast, ignoring the sound of the announcer’s “Aoba Johsai High School, you may begin your performance in competition.” Instead he’s listening for the start of the music, and years of band have made it effortless for him to pick out the underlying beat and start counting in sets of eight. 

He doesn’t have his trombone to hide behind. Iwaizumi has an awareness of his movements and choreography and the weight of his flag in his hand that he never had with marching band. Then, there were flashes of color and vague shapes outlined on a green field, and when he saw Oikawa out of the corner of his eyes, it was blurred blues and greens and browns. Now, every motion he makes is deliberate and careful, and he comes face to face with Oikawa right before the flag feature. He’s close enough to make out the details of his face, the way his eyes crinkle when his smile turns genuine. He can even pretend the smile is for him. 

  
  


“How was your first show?” Oikawa asks breathlessly through a smile. They’d flown through the show, their flags stilling for just a second at the last note of the song, before they rushed to grab all their equipment and be off the floor for the next group, still high from the rush of performance, running through the gym hall back outside to fold and put away flags properly. 

“Good,” replies Iwaizumi. “Two drops, I think. Almost three, but I saved it.” 

His words sound sad to his own ears, because every mistake is a break in the flow of the performance and lost points off their score. 

“Two?” Oikawa looks shocked, Iwaizumi wonders if he should’ve lied to spare him the disappointment, but he breaks out into a wide grin. “For your first show? That’s incredible! See, I knew you’d be good at guard-”

“ _G_ _ood_ is generous-”

“But did you have fun?” he asks, searching Iwaizumi’s face, as if he’s scared of the answer.

Iwaizumi just laughs. “Of course I did.” 

There’s still hours to go before awards. Iwaizumi and Oikawa are once again inseparable, wandering around the campus grounds together. There’s booths set up outside the gym with guard themed merchandise ranging from little trinkets to jackets printed with witty one-liners. There’s also food trucks, and Oikawa doesn’t even ask before he orders them a plate of fries and offers to split. Iwaizumi is happy to indulge, and later surprises him with snow cones, complete with blue raspberry syrup. 

They make their way back inside to sit on the bleachers with the others in the Seijoh guard and watch the last few performances. This is the Independent class, older guards that will go on to compete for Winterguard International competitions. The one they watch is set to none other than “Sound of Silence” but all the crowd can do is scream for the tricks and tosses, and Iwaizumi is screaming too, and Oikawa is grabbing his arms and shaking him, and when it ends to roaring applause they look at each other with starry eyes, as breathless as if they had performed the show themselves. 

In stark contrast, the next half hour is deathly calm while judges tabulate behind the scenes, guards waiting for scores in anticipation. Iwaizumi reaches for his drawstring bag, digging around for the trusty blue earbuds he carries with him everywhere. He offers one to Oikawa.

He hits shuffle, “Spaceman” by The Killers is first up. He can’t help but glance over to see if Oikawa’s enjoying the music, too, and to his great surprise his best friend is mouthing the words to himself. 

“This song reminds me of us for some reason, Iwa-chan,” he says before Iwaizumi can ask how long he’s been listening to The Killers (he wouldn’t dare ask if it’s because of him, but oh, he wants to). “Not sure why. Maybe ‘cause _star maker_ and _dream maker_ \- kinda like us.” 

“Who’s who?” Iwaizumi asks, and the sheer adrenaline of watching an open-class guard throw rifles ten feet in the air and catch them is nothing compared to this. 

“You’re star maker, I think. ‘Star maker says it ain’t so bad’ and that’s who you always are to me, reminding me to put it in perspective.”

He’s at a complete loss for words. How do you reply to that without everything else accidentally spilling out all at once, without telling him that “Spaceman” has had a place on _New New Wave_ since last December? 

“Well, you gotta be dream maker,” he settles on, the words thick in his mouth, “‘Dream maker’s gonna make you mad’, right?”

Oikawa blinks, then smiles. “Mean, Iwa-chan,” he replies, but there’s no malice behind it.

 _The spaceman says, everybody look down,_ the song plays on in his ears,

_It's all in your mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one part left!
> 
> [this is the independent guard](https://youtu.be/53bHoV7VUlM) that inspired the last performance they watched. and here is [iwaizumi's new new wave playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/42ohCYH7Nty4JmsbezJGTw?si=Kniib4hBQL-8ADM2Dwi_Zg)
> 
> oikawa's sister is named after yukari yakumo of touhou project fame (for reasons that have to do with another self-indulgent au of mine). "revenge of techno" is a nod to a show done by my college band, that includes absolute bangers such as blue (da ba dee) by eiffel 65, heaven by dj sammy, every time we touch by cascada, what is love by haddaway, and believe by cher. 
> 
> as always, thank you for reading! come yell with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/petalbridges) if you want!


	4. all these things that i've done

_Time, truth, hearts._

April sneaks up on Iwaizumi. 

Suddenly the last chills of March, the lightly rainy afternoons, the temporary respite of spring break gives way to clear skies of April. Pink mornings, blue nights, sunny days. 

Iwaizumi is caught up in the thrill of two more winterguard competitions and the joy of spending time with his friends every practice, and when the student council walks into his fifth period class to announce the prom’s theme, he’s not filled with giddy excitement, but deep, deep dread. 

The invitation cards are passed around. One lands on his desk, face up. It’s a white 3-by-5 card, printed with the theme - “Shades of Blue and Gold.”

He takes it carefully in his hands, looking at it, and tucks it into one of his binders. Out of sight, out of mind.

The topic doesn’t come up again until the end of winterguard practice a week later, when he and Oikawa are rolling up flags outside in the courtyard, the others folding the tarp. 

His voice is strangely quiet, unsure. “Are you thinking about asking someone to prom, Iwa-chan?” Iwaizumi stops the surprise from showing on his face by gripping the flagpole so hard his knuckles turn white. He prays Oikawa doesn’t notice, his face still downturned to his own flag. 

“I don’t know,” Iwaiuzmi answers. It’s half-honest. “I don’t know if I’m a prom kind of guy?”

“Oh,” replies Oikawa. He pauses as if he’ll say something more, but nothing else comes out of his mouth. 

“I mean, I guess I might go? Depends on who with. I’m not, like, planning to go, I guess?”

“Oh,” replies Oikawa again, in a clipped voice, as if taking a rejection. “Well, if you change your mind, Iwa-chan, I’ll help you find a cute date.” He winks at him, but it looks forced. 

Iwaizumi opens his mouth, someone on the guard calls for Oikawa at that moment, and he’s running off to help load the tarp onto the cart that’ll wheel it back to the band room. 

Gathering flagpoles in his arms, Iwaizumi sighs. _You can’t ask him,_ he reminds himself. _It’s not going to happen._

The text from Oikawa shouldn’t make him sick to his stomach, but it does. 

It’s a Friday, an off-day from winterguard practice because they don’t have a competition tomorrow. Oikawa had walked with him to the band room but not to his car, citing that he had something to do. Iwaizumi attempted not to take it personally. 

Now, learning what that _something_ was, he can’t help but feel left out. Forgotten, even. 

_So, I asked Mattsun to prom today._

Iwaizumi lets his phone flop onto his bed, sitting up criss-cross, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He finally reaches out for the phone with both hands, writing the second thing that comes to mind (the second thing after _why, why not me_ ):

_What about Hanamaki?_

Oikawa’s answer comes quickly. _Mattsun said Makki wasn’t really interested in going to prom, kinda like you. But I knew Mattsun wanted to go, so I asked if he wanted to as friends._

 _“As friends.”_ Iwaizumi reads, over and over again. And then, _“he wasn’t really interested in going to prom, kinda like you.”_

“You did this to yourself, idiot,” he says quietly. 

_So Mattsun and I went to that frozen yogurt place,_ Oikawa continued on his screen. _I bought his yogurt for him and then asked. Not very special, but it’s not really a date or anything, right?_

 _Yeah,_ Iwaizumi replies, if only to remind himself as well. 

_So you could come with us, if you want!_ writes back Oikawa. 

_Okay,_ writes Iwaizumi, carefully, _I’ll think about it._

Matsukawa finds him first on Monday morning. 

“Iwa! About prom-”

“Oikawa said he asked you?” Iwaizumi cuts him off. It’s not unkind, just a statement, paired with a raised brow. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yeah,” answers Matsukawa, simply. “I asked him if he’d talked to you about it - not in an obvious way, just if you’d _talked_ , and he said you didn’t want to go?”

“Something like that.” Iwaizumi looks away.

Matsukawa punches him in the arm with a loose fist, both of them rocking on their heels with the motion. “You’re invited too. I’ll even play wingman for you, maybe trip and ‘accidentally’ shove you into Oikawa, huh? Classic move.”

He’s got that smirk on his face that says he _knows_ he’s riling Iwaizumi up on purpose, and though Iwaizuimi hates him at this particular moment he’s glad Matsukawa doesn’t think he’s jealous. 

(He’s not jealous.)

“Shut the fuck up,” he settles on as a stuttered reply, unable to form anything more eloquent. Matsukawa snickers. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

First bell rings, and Matsukawa swings his backpack over his shoulder. “I’d be glad if you came along. I’m sure it’d make Oikawa happy, too.” 

The sun starts setting later, and winterguard practices now take place under sunnier skies instead of freezing cold evenings. Iwaizumi can finally wear his tank tops to practice, instead of a hoodie that would always get uncomfortably warm anyway after the strain of a full runthrough, not to mention tangled in his flag on more than one occasion. 

Right now he’s wearing a t-shirt from an old marching band invitational that he cut the sleeves and the hem off of. Oikawa’s staring at him from across the tarp as they lay it out low to the ground, pulling it taut at the corners to chase away the creases. Their guard instructor calls for a water break before they begin. Iwaizumi half-jogs over to where Oikawa’s water jug is next to his, and Oikawa meets him there. 

“What?” Iwaizumi demands, arm wrapped around his water cooler and other hand popping the lid. 

Oikawa startles. “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

“You were staring at me,” Iwaizumi says between gulps. 

“Was I? Sorry,” says Oikawa quickly. “Where’s that shirt from?”

Iwaizumi’s chin dips down so he can look at his own shirt. “Oh, the Fukurodani invitational, not last season but the one before. Why?”

“Just wondering,” Oikawa replies. His voice is half-choked, as if he tried to talk through swallowing a gulp of water. 

“Been drinking long?” Iwaizumi teases, before jogging to warm-ups with his flag in hand. 

The truth is, Iwaizumi waffles about the prospect of prom for the rest of the month. The problem with being in high school, however, is that prom seems to be the most exciting event of the year. 

He gets the appeal, to an extent. This is the first prom his fellow juniors are “officially” allowed to attend, and it feels like a milestone. In the movies, prom is the best night of your teenage life, surrounded by friends and free from parental supervision, dressed up and hand in hand with your high school sweetheart. 

Iwaizumi isn’t much for crowds, too-loud music, or the politics of high-school dances. He went to homecoming his freshman year and hated it, leaving after an hour and some change. He can’t imagine prom is much better. 

Worst of all, he can’t imagine third wheeling for Oikawa and Matsukawa, even if Matsukawa insisted that he would make _himself_ the third wheel and the wingman, disappear suddenly and leave them together on the dance floor. Part of Iwaizumi fantasizes about Oikawa falling in love with him under neon lights, slow-dancing to a cheesy love song and letting Iwaizumi lean in to kiss him-

Thoughts like that will get him nowhere. 

Oikawa had never mentioned the invitation again. Matsukawa brought it up every once in a while, gently, encouragingly. Iwaizumi never gave him a straight answer. 

On the Thursday before the dance, Iwaizumi texts Oikawa. 

_Would you guys really not mind if I tagged along to prom?_

Oikawa’s response is near immediate. 

_Not at all! Of course you’re invited, Iwa-chan!_

He feels a small smile tug at his lips. The cursor blinks on his screen, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard, thinking of a response. _Maybe it’ll be fun. I’ll ask my mom._

Truly, the _last_ thing he wants to do is ask his mom about the prospect of going to a school dance (and hearing his mother’s lighthearted yet stinging comments of _“Who are you and what have you done with my Hajime?”)_ but he steels his courage and walks down the stairs, slowly and deliberately. 

His mother is on the couch wrapped in a blanket, watching the nightly news. When she notices Iwaizumi she smiles, patting the space next to her in invitation. 

Iwaizumi plops onto the seat, pushes down the urge to sigh nervously. 

“What’s up, baby?” his mom prompts. 

“What do you think about me going to prom,” he says, not as a question but a statement. Ripping off the bandaid, getting it over with.

She looks at him for a moment. He expects giddiness, on her part, excitement at the prospect of getting to fawn over her boy. He also feels a nervousness at the idea of getting _caught,_ as if his mother can read his mind about going to prom for a certain boy’s attention, a nervousness that only intensifies when she’s quiet. 

“Hajime, if you had asked me even a week ago, I would’ve loved to take you tux shopping,” she begins, and he can feel the blood draining from his face. “But your prom is this weekend, right? It’s… a little late.” 

He knows that. He knows. She doesn’t have to rub it in.

“I- we’ll make it work, if you really want to, but I just don’t want you to be disappointed-” she adds quickly, seeing his face, but he waves her off. 

“No no, you’re right. I think I was just peer pressured to go,” Iwaizumi admits, trying to convince himself as well. “I just got that fear of missing out, you know? I’d probably be happier at home, anyway.” He distantly registers his mom asking if he’s sure, but he’s already halfway back up the stairs. 

Oikawa texted him back while he was gone, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what to say. 

Oikawa seems to figure it out anyway, when Iwaizumi doesn’t bring it up again. On Friday, they go about their day as normal, neither mentioning the event that’s happening tomorrow. They walk together to the Performing Arts building, stay close to each others’ sides as they gather their things for the weekend, and make their way silently to Iwaizumi’s car. 

Iwaizumi offers him a ride to his own car at the end of the lot and Oikawa smirks as he prances over to the passenger’s side. 

“Want me to set up your music?” Oikawa asks genuinely.

Iwaizumi, in the process of putting on his seatbelt, quickly thinks if there’s anything incriminating open on his phone. Matsukawa hasn’t texted him since Wednesday, and Hanamaki hasn’t brought up Oikawa in weeks - and those were the only two who knew. 

“Sure,” he says, trying not to sound nervous. It’s not as if Oikawa will be able to tell anything from his music alone. _New New Wave_ is about as innocuous as a name for a crush playlist gets. 

Oikawa’s thumb opens Iwaizumi’s phone, and Iwaizumi tries not to stare at him navigating to Spotify, instead occupying himself with the task of starting the car. He flinches when Oikawa hums, connecting his phone to the car’s bluetooth.

“This is a good song,” Oikawa says simply, as the intro builds up. Iwaizumi knows what song it is immediately, and knows it’s on _New New Wave_. 

_Thought that I'd be better off, if I were on my own._

_I tried to put my finger on the moment we went wrong._

Oikawa really has no clue how ironic it is that he picked this one, of all of them. 

_Ice cold, but I freeze up when I see ya, left you just to find out that I need ya._

_So far, I wanna pull you closer,_

_I wish we could start the whole thing over._

Iwaizumi pulls up to the end of the parking lot right as the bridge starts, which gives him an excuse to turn down the radio and cut off the “ _Ever since I left you, I’ve been tryin’ to get you back-”_ before it can continue. 

“See you, Oikawa,” he says, giving a half smile. 

Oikawa gathers his things and throws a smirk over his shoulder. “See ya, Iwa-chan.” 

Iwaizumi drives off, but not before setting the song on loop, so he can wallow in his cowardice all the way home. 

_I take back everything I said, ooh, won't you just come home?_

On Saturday night, Iwaizumi sees Oikawa tagged in the pictures his mom posts to Facebook. He and Matsukawa, grinning for the camera in front of a backdrop of the mountains behind Oikawa’s house. Both in shades of blue and gold, to match the theme, Oikawa’s bowtie a bright teal against his light grey suit and Matsukawa’s navy one bringing out the golden undertones in his complexion. 

He likes the pictures and closes the app. 

Nothing really happens, after that. 

School starts again on Monday, and life goes on. He and Oikawa resume their conversations, spend the mornings together outside the Performing Arts building, stretch next to each other at winterguard practices. Neither Matsukawa nor Hanamaki bring up prom, and the four of them fall back into easy friendship. 

The end of April brings the winterguard season to a close. The gravity of his last performance doesn’t hit Iwaizumi until he’s standing on the floor at State, pausing for the five seconds of stillness he’s allowed before they have to tear down everything and drag it out of the gym. Then, suddenly, he’s outside, the sun brighter than the first competition and the heat on his skin and his arms filled with flags he’s become attached to by now, and it’s over. 

They have an end-of-season banquet, of course. It’s nothing too special, just the guard gathered outside in the courtyard, sharing a meal of sub sandwiches and picnic snacks. Pictures were taken, including one of the four of them - one that was so rudely photobombed by Kunimi, sticking out his tongue behind Oikawa. 

(Oikawa complains, but Iwaizumi sees him add the photo to his “Favorites” album.)

The guard captain gathers them when the sun starts to set, giving a short speech about how proud she was of all of them. She struggles through the whole thing, insisting that she’s never been good with saying her emotions, and her guard laughs but listens with rapture, touched by her honesty. 

It was tradition for everyone in guard to receive an “award” from one of their fellow members, and this year they had all drawn names about two weeks in advance. Iwaizumi had drawn Hanamaki’s name, and thought his award was rather clever - the “Brightest Crayon in the Box” award, composed of a box full of pink items. Hanamaki shot him a glance as he pulled the ribbon to reveal his present, familiar with the other three’s friendly teasing of his box-dye hair, but lit up when he saw the pink-frosted cookies, Starbucks tumbler, hair clips, strawberry lemonade mix, and a handwritten note from Iwaizumi. 

“You’re a little shit,” said Hanamaki, as he grabbed Iwaizumi around the shoulders for a hug. 

Hanamaki pulled Oikawa’s name - he gave him the “Overachiever” award, and the entire guard laughed as Hanamaki presented it dramatically, Oikawa turning red. It was a miniature teddy bear, dressed in Build-a-Bear clothes painted over to look like his Seijoh volleyball uniform, holding a flag made of a popsicle stick and a piece of teal fabric. Makki had even added a _tasteful_ pair of fake lashes, which even Oikawa laughed at. 

Matsukawa was given the “Died Laughing” award by Kindaichi, which was two books of morbid jokes, a roll of skull-pattern washi tape, and five dollars HotCash to Hot Topic. He realized his mistake immediately when Matsukawa offered to take him on a mall date, and Kindaichi had to stutter out (unconvincingly) that he’d never been to Hot Topic in his life.

Finally, Iwaizumi’s name had been pulled by Oikawa. “This award,” he started, in front of everyone, and the bastard actually looked _nervous,_ what the hell, “Is called the ‘Favorite Record’ award, because just like a good song, Iwa-chan is always there when you need him.” 

The rest of the guard _aww_ s as Oikawa hands him the CD case. Iwaizumi’s speechless, staring at the case in his hand and the silver disk inside it. 

“It’s a mixtape,” says Oikawa, as if he couldn’t have figured it out. 

“Thanks,” Iwaizumi chokes out.

After awards they’re left to mingle for another hour or so, as it’s not yet too late. The time passes slowly and all at once, the four of them in a loose square on the grass with their gifts tucked safely next to them. Iwaizumi desperately wants to know what songs are on the CD, but the bigger part of him is both too proud and too believing in the integrity of mixtapes to ask Oikawa outright. Existing in the same space has become easy for them - they were close before, but now they’ve been brought even closer by another season spent by each other’s sides, one where they’re not separated by sections and drum major stands and yards on a field. Just the four of them, a tarp on a gym floor, and music. 

“What I’m _saying_ is that we could totally pull that off,” Matsukawa says, waving his hand. 

“The whole point of the movie is that they’re illusionists or whatever the fuck,” counters Hanamaki. “You can’t walk four feet without everyone hearing you coming, elephant steps.” 

“Rude!”

“What movie is this?” Iwaizumi asked, having zoned off for ten seconds only for the conversation to take a wild turn. 

“ _Now You See Me,_ ” answers Oikawa lightly. “Hanamaki brought up the sequel coming out this year and we found that none of us actually saw the first.”

Matsukawa chimes in, “It’s a heist movie about four friends! It would be the perfect movie night.”

“Then why don’t you guys come over and we watch it?” offers Iwaizumi. 

“Bet?”

“Bet.”

“Movie night!” Oikawa cheers. “Do you think your folks would be okay with such short notice, though?” 

“Ah…” Iwaizumi thinks, his thumb already hovering on his phone to text his mom. “Would this weekend work better?”

An hour before his friends are due to come over, Iwaizumi lays flat on his bed and stares at his ceiling fan, turning lazily.

His phone buzzes with a message and it startles him out of zoning off. It’s Oikawa. 

_Do you mind if I come over a little early?_

Iwaizumi doesn’t ask for a reason and doesn’t need to think about the answer. _Yeah, of course._

He’s nervous, fidgety - _for no reason -_ he tries to convince himself, as he jumps off his bed and messes with his hair in the mirror. 

Oikawa is there after just a few minutes. He lived close, but Iwaizumi suspects his nervousness had a hand in making the wait pass quickly. Oikawa texts him at the door, and Iwaizumi pulls it open to see his best friend in jeans and a NASA sweatshirt, his backpack slung over one shoulder. 

He raises a hand and gives Iwaizumi a wave. “Gonna let me in, Iwa-chan?”

“No,” replies Iwaizumi, sticking out his tongue, but he holds the door open for Oikawa to step inside. He’s been over so many times that he seems to belong there in the entryway, and his sneakers have a place right next to Iwaizumi’s own. 

They end up on the couch in the living room. Iwaizumi’s parents are gone for the weekend, which means they’ll have the house to themselves for their movie night. He doesn’t worry about entertaining Oikawa - they’ve been past that point for years - instead plopping down and taking out his phone to scroll. 

Every once in a while, they’ll chuckle and send the other a link to a post. Then Oikawa texts him _I’m sitting right here_ and Iwaizumi makes a huge show of leaning over to his side of the couch to show him the next one, before sitting back against the armrest on the opposite side. When Oikawa leans over next he ends up in Iwaizumi’s space, nearly on top of him. He lays his head on Iwaizumi’s chest and they stay there, as if nothing’s wrong. 

It’s not until the doorbell rings and they both sit up quickly that it dawns on Iwaizumi what they’d been doing. He stands up first, making a beeline for the door so Oikawa doesn’t see the look on his face. 

Matsukawa and Hanamaki are both there, each holding a family-size bag of chips. 

“You guys didn’t have to-” Iwaizumi’s cut off when Matsukawa shoves the bag of salt and vinegar chips at him. 

“Just being a good guest,” Matsukawa shrugs, taking off his shoes. 

“You’re the only one here who likes salt and vinegar chips.”

“Oh, nice,” smirks Matsukawa, as if he didn’t know, taking the bag back from Iwaizumi. 

“Mattsun! Makki!” Oikawa greets them. “I’ve got the movie, let’s go.”

Iwaizumi lets Oikawa deal with the finicky blu-ray player while he makes popcorn, Matsukawa already shoving his hand into his bag of chips. Hanamaki’s are cool ranch Doritos, another specific choice, but Iwaizumi might steal some of his chips later just to piss him off. 

The movie is entertaining, at least. A little cheesy, but Iwaizumi’s never been a stickler for cinematic excellence, and neither have his friends. His phone’s off, but he sees the screen light up somewhere near the middle of the movie, and checks it quickly to see it’s Matsukawa. 

_You keep looking over at Oikawa._

Iwaizumi frowns. _I do not._

 _Yeah you do._ And he sends the kissy face emoji. 

Iwaizumi buries his phone under the pillow he’s leaning against, and he doesn’t even have to look at Matsukawa to know he’s grinning at him. He tries to focus on the movie, but now it’s impossible - he’s got musings rattling around in his head and his phone is burning a hole through the pillow it’s hidden under. Finally he gives in, glancing over once to see Oikawa fully engrossed in the movie, and so writes out a few quick texts to the boy on the other side of the couch. 

_Okay, listen. Before you guys got here, Oikawa came over early._

_Did you kiss???_ Matsukawa types back, and Iwaizumi has to tamp down the urge to punch him. 

_No!!! But we were just hanging out, and we?? Cuddled, I guess?? For lack of a better word?_ Writing out the word _cuddling_ makes him want to crawl into a hole, but there’s no other way to explain Oikawa laying on top of him, head on his chest. 

_I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna kill you both._

_WHY?_

_I’m literally begging you to say something to him, Iwa._

_But what if??_

_NO MORE WHAT IFS. SAY SOMETHING OR ELSE._

_Or else what??_

_Or else… I’ll figure it out. But say something._

Iwaizumi lets the message sit until his screen goes blank. He lets it sit through another five minutes of the movie that he doesn’t pay attention to, and then he opens his phone again and texts back. 

_Okay._

_OKAY??_

_I’ll tell him. After the movie. Once you two leave._

_Aw, can’t I stay and watch?_

_Absolutely not._

Iwaizumi couldn’t tell you the plot of the movie _._ He barely paid attention to it, much less watched the second half, and by the time the movie finished with a twist that had Oikawa’s jaw dropped open, he was so nervous that his hands were sweating. 

“Well,” Matsukawa said, pretending to yawn as he stretched. “We ought to get going. Thanks for hosting, Iwaizumi.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees on autopilot, “‘Course.”

Cleanup is easy - the DVD goes back in the rented DVD case, the two chip bags get thrown in the trash, the popcorn bowl in the sink. Iwaizumi bounces on his feet while they lace their shoes back up, the banter between them not even registering. He’s only got one thing on his mind right now, and he’s determined not to fuck it up. 

He follows them outside, socks on the night-chilled pavement. Matsukawa took the empty space in his driveway, so he waits for him to start his car before he hops to Oikawa’s side to walk him to his car parked on the street. 

He waves nervously to Matsukawa as he pulls out into the street, expecting him to drive off. Instead the dumbass hits the breaks in the middle of the empty road, rolling down the window to look at Iwaizumi with a knowing smirk. 

“See you Monday, Iwa?” he asks. Behind him, he hears the sound of Oikawa’s driver side door opening, his car starting. 

He turns over his shoulder, catching eyes with Oikawa. “Wait,” he says under his breath like a plea, and Oikawa pauses like a deer caught in the headlights. 

“See you Monday,” he says, turning back to Matsukawa and throwing him a look. He takes a step forward, acts like he’s going to throw a kick at the running boards of his truck, hands in his pockets. “Now get the _fuck_ off my lawn.” 

Matsukawa grins at him and waves again, finally, _finally,_ pulling away into the night. 

Iwaizumi turns to see Oikawa standing, one hand on his door and headlights on, car running. 

“I had to tell you something,” he chokes out. 

Oikawa’s got a look on his face that Iwaizumi can’t place. “What?” 

He takes a deep breath. 

“Oikawa, remember when I asked you, last semester - I asked that if you were into someone, but you knew it would never happen, do you think you should still tell them? And you said you’d want to know?”

Oikawa’s reply is near breathless. “Yeah?” 

“Well,” Iwaizumi’s choking on his tongue, can barely process that he’s saying this out loud. “I thought you should know.”

One second passes. 

Two seconds. 

The only sound is Oikawa’s car running in the empty night, the only light is the moon on Oikawa’s starry-eyed, surprised face. 

“Oh, Hajime,” he says, so quietly that Iwaizumi almost misses it, “I think I like you too.” 

He leans forward, his hands resting lightly on Iwaizumi’s shoulders and his lips barely brushing his cheek, and then just like that, he's gone.

Iwaizumi is left standing in the middle of his street, the ghost of a kiss on his cheek, his heart racing, the butterflies in his stomach restless, joyful. 

  
  
  


_(Time, truth, and hearts)_

_If you can, hold on,_

_If you can, hold on._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :,)
> 
> I'm going to save all the sappy comments for the (surprise!) epilogue, but thank you so much for reading. If you've been following this fic since it started, or any time in between, I can't tell you how much it means to me. I can't wait to show you to epilogue.
> 
> [Iwa's New New Wave playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/42ohCYH7Nty4JmsbezJGTw?si=xMEiQo2ETISKAzU5hrJmGA)  
> [find me on twitter!](https://twitter.com/petalbridges)


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